


Stanley Uris Takes a Bath, 27 Years Too Early

by sam_suffers (orphan_account)



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Gen, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Richie Tozier & Stanley Uris Are Best Friends, Stanley Uris Needs a Hug, Stanley Uris Takes a Bath, Stanley Uris-centric, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-08
Updated: 2020-01-08
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:13:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22176856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/sam_suffers
Summary: It's as the title states, Stanley Uris takes a bath, his final bath.Life is overwhelming.Stan can no longer cope.[post-events of IT chapter 1]
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak & Richie Tozier, Richie Tozier & Stanley Uris, Stanley Uris & Everyone
Kudos: 58





	Stanley Uris Takes a Bath, 27 Years Too Early

**Author's Note:**

> idk i wrote this mostly as a vent, beware the tags.
> 
> i kinda mashed book and movie stan into one character so lets see how it goes
> 
> no beta we die like men

It had been a long and tiring day, mid August, where the heat and the rain collide in a dense and warm rainfall - It smothered the town all day. They’d been at bill’s house, it being too miserable outside to go to the Barrens, Stan quite liked going to Bill’s house. They’d occasionally go to Richie’s too, mind, and his house wasn’t too bad, the others much preferred it, especially when his parents where out and they had the place to themselves. Stanley however, liked the feeling of Bill’s house. After Georgie’s death, everything there became so sombre and quiet. He’s never say it out-loud, knowing that Bill hated his household, but he felt comfortable there, like when you get in a bath and the temperature is exactly the same as your body and you melt away.

The other losers had been playing a game of some sorts, a board game, or as Richie had said, a “boar-ing game”. Stan quite liked board games, especially jigsaws, but something that day had quenched his fighting spirit. He didn’t play their game. He didn’t watch either. He wasn’t really there, off in his head, thinking, contemplating, realising. That day, in that moment, he decided that, as soon as he got home, he was going to run a bath. He imagined it step by step, the process, folding clothes, writing notes, his father’s razors.

_His father_

He’d be devastated, Stan knew that. They’d always been close, both sharing the same passion for bird watching, a similar peculiar sense of humour and an appreciation for silence. Yet recently, Stan had pulled away, declining his father’s offer to go down to the Standpipe and just staying in his room. He didn’t really want to go back down to the park near the Standpipe, just seeing it brought back chilling memories but mostly, he declined the offer because it seemed like such an effort. So he stayed in his room alone, for however long the losers would let him. Usually Richie would come by and drag him back into reality. Part of Stan hated him for it and a bigger part of him hated himself for feeling so; he know that his friend was only trying to do what was best for him but God did he just want to fade away into nothingness.

So on this particular day, mid August, rain pouring down, Stan made a decision.

The rest of the day went surprisingly better, with Stan even summoning enough energy to join in with some game of who-knows-what, of course with the presence of his pessimistic and lacklustre attitude, making him seem more like a old man than a teenage boy. However, it was only because of the feeling of the heavy weight on his shoulders being lifted, seeing a way out, hoping for a way out.

If you asked Stan why he wanted to die, he wouldn’t have an answer. It was perhaps a good thing then that no one ever did ask, not on that particular day nor on any day before that. Stan had always been that way, depressing and neurotic, the losers couldn’t tell the difference between “normal” and “worrying”, most of them at least. Richie was the only one of them to have been friends with Stan before, before depression, before IT, before the world came crashing down in the form of a crown of scars around his face. Richie remembered Stan being happy, playing at the playground like all the other children, when he didn’t worry so much about other people, didn’t feel that constant looming dread, didn’t obsess over small details - He had always been meticulous in nature but, when he was younger, it had been more of a quirk than a problem -Richie remembered it.

But Richie didn’t mention when he saw a look in his friends eye that was just a little off, he didn’t ask when he noticed the change in behaviours, he was happy that Stan was joining in even if something still seemed slightly wrong. Later that night, Richie would talk to Eddie about it; he’d recount all of the things he’d noticed over the past few months and before. Eddie would feel foolish for having not seen it. They’d both agree to ask Stan about it, check that everything was okay, or as okay as Stan ever could be. It would be too late.

Stan biked home that night, having left before anyone else, siting that his mother didn’t want him to be late for dinner again. This was, in fact, a lie. Stan was a good liar. His parents had been staying in another state nearby, his aunt had fallen sick and they were paying her a visit. Stan stayed home, he wasn’t sure why he’d done that but he was glad he had, he had the entire house to himself. As Stan biked, he began to cry. He did not know consciously why but something deep inside of him had finally given in to it all. He cried with the rain.

Then he unlocked the door to a dark, empty hall. He could smell the muskiness of a room in which there hadn’t been a single window open for a while. It was cold. Stan liked the cold, warmth had always been uncomfortable. Being cold almost felt like being alive. When had he last felt truly alive?

He sighed. It was a long, drawn out sigh of someone with the world on his shoulders. He didn’t really express his emotions, at least not all of them. He had no issues emoting when one of his friends pissed him off, he had no problem laughing at a good joke or enjoying a perfect moment. It was the trickier emotions that stuck to him like a magnet, he attracted negativity despite not being very positive. Guilt, sadness, tired resignation and self-hatred. He didn’t talk about that, he bore the scars of his repression. Sighing out-loud was liberating.

He walked further down the hallway, in front of the mirror. He stopped. There it was, his perfect façade of ironed khaki trousers and perfect hair, angular, organised and well-put together. But on his face, he had the scars. The scars that he hated, just like the ones he kept to himself,

raw

grotesque 

Ugly

God, why

Why

The scars everywhere.

His jaw

Chin

Neck

Thighs

Arms

Tonight was the night. He’d had enough of everything.

He sat down in this fathers office, it felt like an important enough occasion to merit such an action. He grabbed a pen and sheet of paper and carefully wrote a brief note. He’d contemplated ending it all before, many times before, he’d always imagined that he’d have so much to say, so many apologies to issue and reassurances to make. When it actually became time to write, he couldn’t think of anything, as if his brain had run out of words, which may well have been the case considering how socially and emotionally drained he was. Eventually, he settled on a short explanation, an apology to his parents and friends. He said goodbye.

It felt final.

And so, completely alone in a house far too large for such a young boy, Stanley Uris made his final preparations. He went to the bathroom. He found his fathers razors. He pondered on it for a second, worrying if using them would cause his father to feel responsible. In the end, he concluded that the damage had been done - He was going to leave everyone behind, no matter what pain it caused; he thought that that was quite selfish but, for the first time in a while, he honestly couldn’t bring himself to care.

Stan turned on the taps. He turned off the lights, deciding against dealing with the god awful hiss of the halogen bulbs and the glaring light. He could see well enough by the light from the late evening sky.

He folded up his clothes, remaining obsessively tidy and painstakingly fastidious till the very end. A perfect, tidy square with his watch laid on top. 

And then, Stanley Uris took his very last bath.


End file.
